Samson, Bo and me in Savannah

cats

Today is the eleven month anniversary of Lorin’s death. Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. We would have been married nine years.

I do not plan to celebrate our anniversary. I will light a candle for Lorin as I do every night and try to think about the happy times we shared.

Lorin died three days after my birthday, so that will be another day I think I’d rather forget. We were planning to celebrate my birthday in Savannah when we arrived, intact. He bought me some jewelry and was very excited about giving it to me. The jewelry did not survive the car accident. It went missing or was destroyed, don’t know which.

Some pearls of wisdom from the world of trauma and grief:

(1) Things that used to be bother me a great deal don’t bother me anymore.

(2) Things that didn’t bother me before may really upset me.

(3) Don’t waste time.

(4) I do not suffer whiners gladly.

I am still trying to figure out why I survived, what my purpose is. It’s lonely being the survivor. Samson survived too. I couldn’t touch him for the first couple weeks after the accident. He seemed afraid of me and was obviously traumatized. When he finally let me pick him up, he seemed uncomfortable or in pain. His little bones must have been bruised.

Here he is with his new best friend Bo, who I adopted in November:

This song is dedicated to my dear Lorin, who was a wonderful dancer. He liked to grab me while I was in the kitchen or in the living room fussing, and start dancing with me. I miss that, among other things. I wish I could dance with him one more time.

I’ve been missing Bernie terribly today. He was the last kitty we adopted–in April 2016. Lorin saw him at the adoption center at our local Petsmart and said, “You have to meet him.” We already had four cats, so it seemed nutty, even for me, but I went with Lorin on a Saturday to meet Bernie.

Love at first sight. As it was with my Lorin.

They were two peas in a pod.

Everyone loved Bernie, but no one wanted to adopt him, because he was fat. They were afraid he had diabetes or some other illnesses and didn’t want to be burdened with a sick feline. Understandable. One of the foster cat ladies named Chris told us that before he landed at Petsmart, Bernie was in a pound. Apparently his owner had died. He had matted fur on his back that had to be shaved off. It was still growing back, and rather coarse. He had been in the foster system for several months. Chris said we could take him for a week and bring him back if he didn’t get along with our other cats. Of course, we kept him.

He was shy, but loving. He had a favorite red sherpa blanket that he dragged around the house and even brought down to the basement, when Lorin was working there. Lorin’s office was in the basement. Sometimes Lorin helped him drag it down. Bernie talked to his blanket and gathered lots of toys around him. He seemed to need security. We wondered if he had been abused.

Karl adored him, and they started to sleep on the guest room bed together.

Bernie eventually moved from his “safe space” upstairs and started playing with the other cats. One of his favorite games was musical chairs, played at the dining room table. Karl seemed hurt when Bernie migrated downstairs and engaged in play with Quincy and Samson.

****

I have grieved over Lorin, but have been unable to grieve for my cats. On one hand, I felt guilty for grieving over my pets, grotesque even, in light of the loss of my beloved husband. On the other hand, I had no space in my mind and heart for more sadness. The pain of losing Lorin was enough.

But today I was able to grieve for Bernie. Like all my lost pets, he is worth grieving for. I wish I didn’t have to grieve any losses, but there they are. I will never forget the image of Lorin lying dead, nor will I forget the image of Sylvester and Bernie struggling to get up after the accident. I was helpless, useless, unable to save them. I didn’t see Quincy, Karl or Samson, and assumed they were dead.

These images still haunt me and weigh heavily upon my shredded heart.

I still fantasize about Lorin walking through the front door.

Lorin found Bernie and wanted him to be part of our family. I am happy we adopted him and that he had a loving home for even the brief time he did.

If I have learned anything from this, it is that every moment counts, as trite as it sounds. Love the people and animals you love, unreservedly. Don’t take anyone or anything for granted. Love is all.

I have not been on word press for the past several weeks due to an unforeseen tragedy.

My husband Lorin and I and our five cats were driving to Savannah, Georgia on September 28 with a loaded car, ready to start a new life, to escape the rat race of New York / New Jersey. The movers were at the house from 1 p.m. till around 7 p.m. We started the drive at around 7:20 p.m.

We drove through the night without sleep, enduring a torrential rain storm, unscathed. By seven a.m. Thursday, September 29, we were both bleary and falling asleep; Lorin at the wheel. I begged him to pull over, but he said we only had 70 miles left to go and we would be in Savannah in an hour.

At some point we both must have dozed off. I opened my eyes to see a silver oil tanker truck directly in front of us–seemed like inches away. I screamed for Lorin to veer off to the left side. He did so, and our car rolled and tumbled violently down a grassy hill. When the car came to a full stop, I pried open the passenger door and ran out. Lorin was lying in front of the car, his right leg bent slightly up, left cheek pressed to the earth, blood pouring from his ear and mouth. I screamed for help, crying hysterically.

A nurse who must have witnessed the accident came running out of her car to help. She checked his vitals and tried to revive him, but it was too late. Tears streamed down her face. She said, “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

I begged her to revive him, to help him. I begged Lorin not to leave me.

Our belongings were scattered on the grassy area and all over the road. It looked like a plane crash. Only two of our cats, Sylvester and Bernie, were in view. They were struggling to get up, but could not move. I didn’t see the others.

An EMT escorted me to an ambulance, saying I needed to go with him. He asked to take my blood pressure, but I refused. I asked him to please help my husband.

He asked if there was anyone I needed to call and asked where I kept my phone. It was not in my purse. I said it was in my purse. He gave me his phone so I could call family members, first Lorin’s mother who lives in Savannah. I was terrified she would be angry with me and wish I was dead instead of Lorin. I felt the same way when I called his grandmother on Long Island, but got her voicemail, asking her to call me back, but not conveying the news. I asked if someone could help my cats, and the EMT said animal control was on its way and he later gave me their card. Through the window of the ambulance, I saw someone placing a pale blue blanket over Lorin.

“Where are they taking him?” I said.

The EMT said he didn’t know.

I called my father and my best friend Nancy, asking her to please tell my other friends.

I was taken to a hospital in Colleton County, South Carolina and seen by a nurse, social worker and physician. I asked about my cats. The social worker told me that two had died at the scene, and three were taken to the vet. Quincy and Bernie died at the scene. Karl and Sylvester went to the vet; Sylvester was undergoing surgery. Both Karl and Sylvester died.

The nurse gave me two Ativan and the doctor gave me a 10 day prescription of the same.

The social worker returned to my bed saying that one of my cats survived unharmed–Samson. They brought him to me at the hospital.

I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember going to my mother-in-law’s home in Savannah or who drove us.

My stepmother came to Savannah two days later to provide support and assistance.

I am so torn up inside, trying to get through each hour and each day the best I can.

1. Family stencils / decals on the back of cars, or what my husband Lorin calls “the serial killer’s menu.”

(google)

2. People who ride Citi Bikes (New York thing) on the sidewalk. It’s both rude and dangerous. Oh, and don’t get me started on the ones who go through red lights and ride on the wrong side of the road.

3. People who race through Shoprite as if their carts are on fire. It’s kind of weird and also dangerous: you could hit a little kid or old lady that way!

(photo by me)

4. Why cashiers at Duane Reade say, “the following guest” or simply “the following”? I never feel like I’m a guest at Duane Reade. Are we at a party or a pharmacy?

5. Why we can’t pump our own gas in New Jersey. NJ folks text, apply makeup, give themselves bikini waxes, eat entire meals, read newspapers and talk on the phone in their cars, but we’re not allowed to pump our own gas. Some of us don’t mind a bit: bumper stickers and T-shirts abound proclaiming:

6. Why Governor Christie is still in office. The New York Times aired the latest dirty laundry: giving his pal Donald Trump a major break on taxes for the Taj Mahal Casino. No wonder the Garden State can’t afford decent lighting on the roadways and pothole repair.

7. Why people don’t like Sphynx cats. Come on, look at this puss.

8. Short people on the NJ Transit bus who lean their seats all the way back so the person behind them gets their legs crushed. Is it a Napoleon complex? By the way, it’s generally smaller women who do this. Same goes for people on airplanes. It’s rude!

9. People with “glass head syndrome.” Those are the co-workers who are friendly to you one day and the next look through you as if your head was made of glass and you don’t exist.

10. Cookie dough ice cream. Both cookie dough and the ice cream of the same name make me sick to my stomach, and I love baking.

Hoarding. An issue many of us have personal experience with or know of through reality TV shows like Hoarders or Confessions: Animal Hoarders.

Books have been written and films have been made about famous hoarders like Homer and Langley Collyer and Long Island socialites Edith Bouvier Beale (“Little Edie”) and her mother Edith Ewing Bouvier (“Big Edie”) .

He might not be rich or famous, but Bernie the Cat may have succumbed to their ranks as well. He is neither a compulsive shopper (so we have not gone bankrupt, thank goodness), nor does he save reams of old newspapers and other paraphernalia, but does like things.

At first we noticed the shoes. He would lay his head on my sneakers or put his nose inside them, often falling asleep this way.

Then it was my purse and duffel bag.

Next came the red blanket, which he talks to and drags around the floor in his teeth and kneads with his claws.

Once I found his scratch mat, toy alligator and toy bird wrapped inside the blanket as he was dragging it. Alarming!

Last week we found him laying on Lorin’s computer apparatus and extension cords in the basement, seemingly taking possession of them.

He likes to build a fort consisting of my purse, duffel bag and the red blanket. He is not happy when one of his objects is taken away.

Is it time for an intervention?

Hopefully, with love, support and patience, we will get through this as a family, and not have to seek professional help.

Just when you thought things couldn’t get any stranger, along comes Pinot Meow–a non-alcoholic, catnip-based wine for cats. The other variety is MoscCATo. Both were created by cat lover Brandon Zavala of Apollo Peak in Denver, Colorado. I heard about this while watching an episode of Real Time with Bill Maher yesterday.

Zavala says, “I originally thought of the idea as a joke with some friends and I just slapped a label of this ‘Pinot Meow’ onto a wine bottle and from that got the idea to actually start something for cats.”

The feline elixir which hit the markets in November 2015 has become an international sensation, and Zavala promises a canine variety will be available in the near future.

Last night while watching TV, Lorin and I heard what sounded like someone snoring. First, I thought it was the sleeping character in the show we were watching (Aquarius, on Netflix), but after the scene with the sleeping person had ended, the sound continued. Was someone sleeping on our porch or outside? What could it be?

I wandered into the dining room and discovered Bernie lying on top of the red hippo blanket (has hippos on it) and purring like a steam engine. The blanket normally sits on the chair in the back right corner of the dining room, but someone had moved it. A few days ago, Bernie started sleeping on the corner chair, which used to be Tisch’s (our deceased kitty) favorite chair.

I put the red blanket back on the chair, much to Bernie’s chagrin, and he quickly dragged it onto the floor again. Then he commenced kneading it and purring loudly.

When I went upstairs to bed, I heard him making strange vocalizations. Perhaps he was talking to the blanket?

This morning I discovered Bernie lying on the floor on top of the blanket. When I approached to him to ask what he was doing, he moved to the head of the dining room table (photo below), as if ashamed or not wanting to take responsibility for his actions.

I assured him that he was not in trouble, but it didn’t seem to matter. I put the blanket back on the chair.

I wonder where I’ll find it tonight.

(google image)

Update as of July 14: Last night Bernie was dragging the blanket around in his teeth and kneaded it while it was still in his jaws. It seems he was humping it as well.